turning from the brightest green
to crimson rose. Breaking off and
blowing in the purple wind, spinning like
a **** on a weathervane. Following the flock,

chasing every Jane. Billowing in gusts
carried by the river. Smelling as musk,
thick as fatty liver. I trust none
of them. Chivalry is lost. Where are the

gentlemen? I'm happy to lose my head
reading a book than giving head to the sort
with dashing looks. Remember December,
after the bloom as trees lose their color

standing naked in their squalor. Their
gnarly limbs hung restless. Splintered now
and breathless. After the fall they all leave,
sneaking past us in a breeze.